an anthology of dead ends
by Les Rallizes Denudes
Summary: Scenes from family bonding.
1. Feiticeira

I am standing out in front of St. Pierre's, staring intently at a poster from probably a couple years ago, of a movie I've never seen. The Eternal Worm, it says. I'm standing here, looking at what appears to be a rotoscoped image of some type of centipede, with a screaming androgynous human face for a, well, face. For some reason, I'm really fucking freaked out at this poster and I avert my gaze, but that worm is still looking, cripes- And desperately I swallow a small circular tablet, Valium, pale blue, ten milligrams, dry, and then I down a second one. I stop tweaking long enough to stare at the small heart holed into the Valium tablet, and below it the sidewalk streaked with rainwater and sewage, and the yellow hue of shitty lightbulbs from above.

* * *

><p>There is honestly no real reason to be here, but even if I wasn't, there's no reason to be panicking. This is all extended employment, I assure myself.<p>

I'm wearing my poor excuse for business casual. I'm relieved, though, when I stroll into the corridor of St. Pierre's, and it's readily apparent I am far from underdressed.

* * *

><p>I swallow hard, because the Valium isn't working, and it's pretty hard to get your hands on Valium in this day and age, and for a moment I panic that I've been had, it's all a big joke; I might as well be gargling sugar pills and snorting Sweet'n'Low.<p>

What can you do about it, though? I try to flash a grin to myself in the reflection of the window. Outside, a wino is hanging about, literally crying, fucking crying, and all I mouth to him is "get a fucking job you slob" and then I do nail the smile, which reassures me.

Right, the job.

* * *

><p>"I'm here in the dinner party for <em>Sally<em> Acorn," I tell the maitre d'. The maitre d' is this goat, and when he moves, he makes these really jerky movements, like a retired prizefighter with brain damage. The Valium is picking and choosing where it wants to work, meaning this goat, he's alternatively moving in slow motion and then jerking about in real time, which scares me enough to make a mental note to switch to Xanax.

This goat leads me to the back of this glorified greasy spoon; Alternatively this is more or less the best (read: only) dining establishment in knothole. The walls are either gray or wooden and the bar is filled with a haze wherein you can't see two feet in front of you. The faux-leather on the chairs are peeling. It's such a shitty place. Normal circumstances and I wouldn't even think of going here.

At this booth in the back is Sally Acorn, Miles Prower, this coyote named Antoine and Sonic, whose full name is a mystery, which really bugs me because there's no reason I shouldn't know these names.

Acorn is talking with Antoine. Antoine appears to be in his thirties, foreign, and wears old clothing from what appears to be some old regiment. Army surplus fashion. Sally Acorn is wearing nothing except boots and a denim vest. Prower is only wearing boots and gloves.

"Oh, god, An-_toine_," Sally is saying. There is a very fine Chardonnay in her hand that she is not drinking.

Wine is possibly the only food product that gets more valuable past the expiration date.

"You mean to tell me that George Pet-_it_'s _The Philosophical Significance of Shooting My Sister_ _in the Face_ wasn't a perfect essay representing avant-garde in the new millennium? God, Antoine, you are a riot."

"What do you two know about the New Weird Second Wave of writing?" Miles chimes in.

"Are we headed to Scalia's tonight?" Sonic interrupts. "Because if not I have like ten grams going to waste."

"We only have Scalia's and... What was it, Kezia- we only have those two to choose from, really. Cool off, Maurice."

"God, Sally, I know, I'm just really fucking tense over this business with Robotnik." Sonic leans over his nondescript chop suey and beer and holds his head in his gloved hands. "If we screw up, Knothole is beyond fucked."

Sally's face darkens. "I'm very aware of that. That's the reason I've been looking through my network- don't look at me like that, Antoine, I do have one- and reaching out to the appropriate people. I was directed to a mobian named-"

"Nack," I interject.

The patrons of the booth look up. They appear to be less than thrilled at my appearance, but what can you do?

What can you do, I mean.

"You hired the fucking-" Sonic hisses. Antoine, he says something in French, and Miles just downs another root beer, because he's underage. "You hired _this_ guy? Are you trying to make me go insane, Sal?"

"No, I expect you to increase your dosage of lithi_um_," Sally retorts. Watching this situation unfold, even if it involves me is still pretty engrossing, and my head is swinging back and forth between the participants like one might watch in a tennis contest.

I am enamored, yet this may just be the drugs talking.

"My client is arguably the best with a submachine gun in all of Knothole. I assure you, the toppling of Ivo's regime is a very important subject to Nack." The squirrel- or chipmunk? Or some other rodent, she twirls a lock of her red hair between thumb and forefinger.

"It's fucking _Nack_," Sonic insists.

"That's my name, guy."

"Shut up," Sonic snaps. "I still remember the shit you pulled." Then, appealing, he turns back to Acorn. "You remember what he did?"

"Yes, I remember what he did."

"You remember what I did?" I query, innocently.

"Shut _up_," Sonic says again, but this time it's less of an order and more of a whine.

"I remember exactly what you did, Nack," Sally continues, using a straw to endlessly stir the untouched drink. "Of course, trying to take hostage a _royal _rarely ever ends well. You are less than respectable."

"A... Scumbag, maybe?"

"I wouldn't go that far. However, the facts remain in plain sight- you are as good a gun anywhere in the world. Having an addition like that to our immediate command team only strengthens our position against Ivo Robotnik. Robotnik needs to be stopped. He has to-"

"Guilty of war crimes, forced roboticization, so on, so on, so on."

"Yes, Nack, exactly that." Sally waves away the goat, who must have seen Sonic wildly gesturing in my direction.

"And you're expecting me to..."

"Continue being yourself. You dislike Robotnik as much as anyone. You are also a vicious, conniving _weasel_. A whore spreading his legs- in this case, services, to the highest bid_der_." She sees me roll my eyes, and shrugs. "None of us are forcing you to do this, but I assure you, your reward for contributing to our cause will be grand."

* * *

><p>And I ask, how do you know I won't betray you at the first chance? I still kind of <em>dislike<em> you guys.

Sally laughs. "_Nack_," she whispers. "You would have done that by now. You are not the smartest in the room."

* * *

><p>"So what do you want me to do, exactly?" Then: "Wait, first, what exactly are you offering me? I don't do currency; it fluctuates too much."<p>

"_Nack_,"

"I don't do like, gold and silver or any of that shit."

"_Nack_,"

"And I don't do it for drugs, either. I'm not an addict."

Sally grins again.

"_Oh, Nack_."

That last voice, it wasn't Sally.

Sonic is cheering.

* * *

><p>I feel something soft and cottonesque pressed against my face. Instinctively, I struggle and cough, but <em>mother fucker<em>, whoever's behind me has driven their knee into my back, right above the tailbone, and the towel, it's applied like a vice grip, while a gloved hand grabs me by the belt.

_Dietyl ether_ oxapentane. Whoever's got this on, they've done their homework, but there's no reason that I can't hold my brea- _Sonic just got up from his seat and sucker punched me in the gut._

Instinctively, I gasp, which is a bad move. It's not long before it feels like my body has been filled with sand. Damn. Damn damn damn.

My legs buckle, and whoever's holding me lets me fall backward. My eyes are wide open, but the veil of sleep is closing on me, fast.

I look above at my assailant.

Nic is staring down at me, towel in hand.

"_Oh, Nack._"

The darkness swells over me before I ca


	2. We Burn Churches

**I** am nursing a headache with a screwdriver borne from past-expiry-date orange juice and vodka that doesn't seem dissimilar to lighter fluid. The room I'm in is too bright and sterile and linoleum-tiled to be anything good. It is a guest room with drawers full of clothes and- much to my chagrin- Valium, and firearms. There is a poster on the wall for some grindhouse flick called _Eat Your Idols_, wherein two guntoting lesbians brutally murder random travelers in between segments of hardcore pornography. I watched this film once, and aside from a particularly inspired torture scene involving heated pliers and testicular torsion, it was not memorable.

On the bed, me. With the headache and welt from a punch. It's more of a cot, generously termed a bed in the same way you generously term a dismemberment as a superficial laceration. On the foot of this military surplus cot is my sister, who I am desperately trying to avoid eye contact with.

Concus_sion_, I rasp, looking down at the stain on the mattress- long dried, probably blood, hopefully not from where I imagine it to be.

"I'm sorry, Nack, I didn't quite catch that."

I almost say "go eat a bag of dicks you liferuining whore", but I stop myself, smile politely. "Nothing, sis. Hit my head pretty hard, 's all." Don't get mad. I was told once in an anger management class, try thinking up Haiku's on the fly.

_A kangaroo can't_

_Jump backwards; so I'll flank the_

_Bastard and kill him._

Was it 5-7-5 or 7-5-7 with the syllables?

_You never know what_

_You have until it's staring you_

_In the face, smiling._

"Occupational hazard, I'm sure." Nic chimes, which is bizarre.

Nic fucking hates me.

Or used to.

Or still does. "Don't take it too personally."

* * *

><p>"You're lying if you said you didn't enjoy what happened to me, though."<p>

"I'm lying, then. Really, just business. Honestly," she crosses her arms, face otherwise neutral, "you're one to talk 'bout this sort of _thing_."

"Sister?"

"Yes, Nack?"

She's holding and cleaning this old scuffed MG 42 gun. It's recoil-operated and can fire 1,000 rounds per minute, but it has a somewhat low range of effective fire. This is not too surprising considering that it's been around for so long.

When it comes to bullet rounds, I personally prefer the MP5-N. It's a submachine gun with a collapsible stock, a tritium-illuminated front sight post and a 225 mm threaded barrel that can use a sound suppressor- preferably stainless steel, holes drilled- and subsonic specialized ammunition. I prefer to use an ACOG sight, but they're increasingly hard to find, so there is nothing wrong with a basic red dot digital sight. I prefer this gun to the more modern UMP45 due to its higher rate of fire.

I believe, however, your best option is the MP7. Not only is it compact for a submachine gun, it has a gas-operated, short stroke piston, rotating bolt power that means it fires over 950 rounds per minute. Furthermore, it's better suited in dealing with body armour and the most recent MP7A1 can utilize a top-end red dot sight, which I'm partial to.

On the job, you learn these sorts of things.

"If you wanted me to join up with Sally Acorn and these guys, you know there are more enticing ways than ambushing me at a diner, right?"

Nic pauses sorting through her cartridges, as if considering the thought. "I s'pposse so," she concludes. "But that wouldn't have been as fun."

I didn't even get to sample St. Pierre's new tempura maki.

I haven't really eaten anything in the last 48 hours aside from a couple bars of toffee and a bottle of scotch.

And all that Valium, too. No way this shit is going on an empty stomach, I have to find something to eat. And a bottle of Xanax, because I'm done with Diazepam.

"I'm sorry, Nack, I didn't quite catch that."

For the first time, I look across at Nic and realize that if she weren't my sister, I would have shot her, or tried to sleep with her, or both, maybe at the same time.

There are actually much worse things that can happen aside from eternal damnation, if you believe in that stuff. Elder gods. Snuff films. Paedophilia. Murder. Nic the weasel. All of these things can kill you a lot quicker than Beezlebub's seventh sanctum ever could.

"Do we still hate each other?" I ask her.

"Depends, do you want to?"

* * *

><p>I consider this preposition for an amount of time. I realize I can't truly call this hate, not in the same way those dead people do.<p>

There's fear, but it's not the fear of a skier who's overshot their landing and are about to fall on their heads.

There's loathing, but it's not the loathing of a family of a murder victim who was strangled to death on his way home from a blood bank a day before his birthday.

There's apathy, desperation, veneration- you get the idea.

I wish I had a bullet big enough to kill the sun.

_O, hate rain on me._

* * *

><p>"Not really." I gulp more of the Molotov-cocktail-masquerading-as-screwdriver and wince as it goes down. Shit tastes like motor oil. I regret taking this drink in the first place. "Guess there's no real reason to, right?"<p>

,  
>"Well, there <em>was<em>... Hey, remember Ray?"

I furrow my brow. "The faggot? I think he did a lot of heroin."

"No, broth_er_, Ray the Flying Squirrel. Mighty's friend."

I barely have even heard of Mighty, but I shrug and nod. "But anyway, I guess we can put our differences beside us." _I don't even know what I'm getting paid. _"Let bygones be bygones."

She's sorting through 7.92 x 57mm Mauser cartridges. They're rimless bottleneck cartridges that can work with a belt-feed system, allowing for more prolonged firing than say a ShKAS Aircraft gun or an unwieldy Darne 8mm Lebel machine gun. I am partial to an M40A5 rifle, which is based on the Remington 700 bolt-action rifle. They take 7.62 x 51mm rounds. I lean towards utilizing a telescopic sight which really helps the rifle use its 1,000 meter effective range to the best of its ability. I think to myself, _God, Nic, get with the times_. Of course, some people still use bullet weapons for the sentimental reasons, whatever they may be. Perhaps it's more sincere to paint the walls red with a bullet rather than a laser? I've always preferred laser weapons- the Nogueira FSN20K is an exceptional rifle with an auto-chambering cartridge, built-in nitrogen-purged C79A6 optical sight and heated laser rounds, though these guns cost a pretty penny.

My job's not one that can be discussed easily over dinner.


	3. Deashi Harai On The Seventh Line

I am riding on a train from Knothole to Station Square, and I am utterly wrecked on medication. There are two posters above the easternmost window in this cabin- one illustrating the subway line, the second an ad for a theatre production titled _As the World Dies The Eyes of God Grow_ Bigger. The poster itself is glossy and depicts a human strangling a female naked mobian reptile. I'm vaguely interested but become disappointed when the bottom of the poster indicates it was produced by a director whom's work I detest.

I'm sitting at the front of the near-empty cabin, one shaking hand attempting to hold a rolled-together wax paper filled with cannabis, the other working hard to ignite a small plastic lighter. Next to me is Nic, who is carrying something metallic in her backpack, probably some sort of gun.

"That better not be a bullet weapon," I muse. Due to my cottonmouth brought on by illicit medication, it comes out along the lines of _"Raft haah waaw shish mullet re-cep-shun."_ I couldn't name the pills I swallowed even I tried and wasn't high.

"You're such a kidder, Nack. I'm sorry, Fang." She refers to this name I took on briefly to sound more intimidating, though in hindsight it was pretty retarded. I open my gaping, rotting maw to protest, but it's not worth the effort and instead I light this blunt and place it in my mouth. Immense heat fills me, and I realize I placed it lit-end between my lips.

* * *

><p>To the outside world, this probably looks like some poor college student having to care for her drug-addled homeless shithead of a brother.<p>

This isn't far from the truth.

* * *

><p>The car door slides open, and the conductor, or whomever takes your ticket stubs walks in. He is a lizard wearing a fur coat with the hood pulled up. It looks like he's crawling out of, or into, the mouth of a bear. I look to Nic, who's expression does not change. There are a couple of 9-to-5ers in the back, and their faces remain neutral. This is apparently normal. I look back to the lizard, and now he's a lamb with gauge piercings and a t-shirt for a band I've never heard of.<p>

The conductor, or stub-collector or whoever, looks expectantly at me. I dig around the seat I'm sitting on, grab paper, and hold out my ticket. The collector lets my hand hang out in Elysium.

"Is there a problem, sir?" I politely ask. It comes out as _ish fare gun lager, fjord_?

"I'm sorry, patron," he says. "No smoking on the train."

"Huh?" That one came out easy enough. "I'm not smoking." _Eyef snot kshnorking. _I'm a bad enough liar when sober, so this isn't exactly helping. This blunt, it's not even lit because I was dumb enough to stub it out on my tongue, but it's still hanging loosely from my mouth. I am the shit of the world right now. I am the sort of person that liked Lou Reed and Metallica's _Lulu_. I am the type of Mobian that listens to Emmure unironically. I don't even know any of the bands I listed, they don't even exist here. What am I even doing? Aside from being the best possible argument for not sending your children to a public school.

"Mister," the now-human is politely saying. His face is half-covered in burn scars and his nametag reads _Oswaldo_. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave. You're really in no condition to ride."

"Is this even proper train policy?" _Shif snikt leben toppar flain hominy?_

The now-feline is grabbing me lightly by the shoulder, and I finally gain enough motor skill to gasp, _no._

_Let go of me_.

I look at Nic, who is desperately trying to avoid eye contact with me. I look back to the conductor, who is apparently a giant sentient bag of semolina now? Scratch that, now he's a burning effigy of a lion, then a matte-black bear.

"Get the fuck off me, man." I plead, starting to grasp the English language again. He reaches under my arms as if to embrace me. Me, I panic and hook my arms around his, and suddenly we're clinched like wrestlers. He starts to pull back, which is when I use my left leg to reap his right leg out from him. We fall, and I'm pretty sure he hit his head on a seat, because he's making this weak _urch urch_ gagging noise.

I look up, and the people on the train, their faces are nothing but fear. Nic's, meanwhile, is just exasperation.

I am fortunate to learn that we have reached our stop.

* * *

><p>Our conversation heading from the subway is less than productive, but it's one I probably had coming.<p>

"I can't believe you did that."

_"I'm sorry, sis."_

"Seriously, that was... ugh."

_"I'm sorry I looked like a common thug or some druggie."_

"Not only that, but you had double-overhooks and you went for some dopey-looking judo trip!"

_"You think Team Hooligan cares about judo? That shit's like... The Knuckles the Echidna of martial arts."_

"Shut up and drive. I'm starting to remember why I never worked with you."

_"It took you this long?"_


End file.
